


Sporting Woods

by IgnobleBard



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Humor, Sassy trees, The Valar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/pseuds/IgnobleBard
Summary: Namo deals with some sassy trees in the gardens of Lórien.Written for Back to Middle-earth month on the Silmarillion Writer's Guild.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Sporting Woods

It had been long since Námo had taken his ease in his brother’s gardens in Lórien. The atmosphere was so different from Mandos. He preferred his own huge, mostly dark fortress, of course, but it was nice to get out once in awhile, get a little sun, walk beneath the trees, drink from the fountains, make a nosegay of flowers... He shook his head. He did need to get out more.

As he strolled along, he was startled when he heard a whisper behind him. It was indistinct and he couldn’t quite make it out. He turned around to look, but there was no one there. Curious, he strolled back in the direction he had come. Just as he passed a line of trees, he heard the whisper again.

“Did you see the ass on that guy?”

“Oh, yes. Someone is getting a middle-Second Age spread.”

“Hey!” Námo said indignantly. “Which of you said that?”

The trees all stood silent, waving their branches nonchalantly. Then he noticed one branch seemed to be pointing at the tree next to it. He stood in front of the tree, glowering. 

“What’s the big idea?” he asked.

The tree shook its branches in irritation. “Thanks for ratting me out, bitch,” it said to its traitorous neighbor.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” the other tree huffed, “it was the wind.”

“Yeah, right,” the first tree replied under its bark. Then it said to Námo, “No offense, dearie, just making an observation.”

“So, you think I have a big butt?” he growled.

“If you covered it with a longer tunic it would barely be noticeable,” the tree offered helpfully.

Námo was crestfallen. “I know I spend a lot of time on my throne, judging the dead and proclaiming dooms and such, but I work out too.”

“Oh, I can tell,” the tree said in a placating tone, “it’s just one of those things that happen to Valar your age. Take Irmo for example, he spends a lot of time doing clenches and it’s really firmed him up.”

“And he lays off the sweets too,” the other tree whispered, flicking a bird from its branches to avoid the annoyed look Námo shot it.

“What do you know about it anyway?” Námo sniped. “You haven’t left this forest since you were acorns.”

“Your throne is my cousin Ernie,” the first tree replied. “Gossip is pretty much all there is to do around here.”

“Then maybe you could use some exercise too,” Námo said. He waved a hand and the trees grew root-like legs. “Now get out of here. I came to relax, not be insulted.” 

The trees danced off to a nearby stream and dipped their root-toes in, laughing giddily as the water rushed straight to their twigs, making them a bit inebriated.

Námo shook his head at their antics, making a mental note that Vairë needed a new dining room suite. He wandered over to the fountain, sighing in pleasure at the sound of the gurgling water. Cupping his hands he caught the refreshing liquid, bringing it to his lips. Just as he filled his mouth he heard the fountain whisper, “Can you believe this guy’s hair? That look is so First Age.”

And thus there occurred the first, though sadly unrecorded, spit- take.


End file.
